Isolated but Never Alone
by CalPal052699
Summary: "This is different. This is her child, her precious little baby, and her child is sick." After complications make an early delivery necessary, Kate gets to see her tiny, micro-preemie daughter for the first time.


**My entry for the seventh castlethemeparty challenge on tumblr: isolation.**

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It starts in her heart, travels through her veins like ice, to every single part of her being: the pain. It burns this image to her mind, this _feeling _that she never, _ever _wants to feel again. It makes her toes curl against the hard plastic beneath her feet. It makes her heart break...shatter...into a million little pieces as both love and fear wash over her like a tsunami.

It hits her like a lightning bolt.

She can't even compare this to anything, this pain that makes her heart physically ache. Being shot in he chest feels minimal compared to this. The incident—the case of abruptio placenta—that almost took her life seems irrelevant. Yes, even though it's the reason she's still sitting in this wheelchair, her stomach hurting, pain medication being pumped through her veins, her stomach hurting anyway with the after effects of the condition, and the c-section it caused.

This is different. This is her child, her precious little baby, and her child is sick.

The room is bright, almost overly so. She knows it's necessary, and she wouldn't change it for the world, because it's what her baby needs. Her pounding headache be damned, she would do anything, power through anything, to keep her daughter alive, to have the chance to raise this precious little girl.

Castle said she's beautiful, it was the first thing he told her after she woke up. From here, though, tears welling in her eyes and blurring her vision, she can't really see.

She just wants to see her baby girl, finally see the little girl she gave birth to a week ago. Even though she's been awake for three days now—she spent four unconscious after going into hypovolemic shock—it's her first time out of bed. She just regained the strength to sit up yesterday. And this morning, right after she woke up, the nurse told her she had doctor's permission to leave her room as long as she was in a wheelchair. She demanded that the first place Castle took her was to see their baby.

There had been tears in his eyes, seeing the determination, desperation and love in hers. She knows he didn't even think of denying her, not after showing her pictures and videos and trying to explain what it was like to her while she was stuck in bed.

She understands now, understands why he was crying, why his voice would shake when he tried to express how small their little girl was, why he would disappear into the bathroom after returning to her room from the NICU.

She's tiny, the little girl that still has no name. So incredibly tiny. And though she knew that from the moment she woke up and he told her that their daughter was born and as _okay _as to be expected. At birth, though, he had proceeded to tell her, squeezing her hand, leaning over her bed and gazing into her fear-filled eyes, she had weighed only 1 pound, 9 ounces and was only 8,8 inches long, from head to bottom.

Words, even those of a professional author, can't describe this, can't describe how _tiny_ she is.

Her skin in dark, almost translucent, blood vessels visible through it. She's thin, literally skin and bones and vital organs. Her body is curled in on itself, still in the fetal position like she would be if she was still in the womb, like she should be. Her head looks too big for the rest of her. Her eyes are closed. She's not sure they've opened yet.

The diaper she's wearing is almost as tiny as her, but she still looks like she's drowning in it. A hat covers the top of her head, so big that it covers the entirety of her forehead and the back of her head and is still tied off over the round of her skull, too big, too loose to keep her warm otherwise. A blanket surrounds her, rolled up and curved around the outline of her body, making her look even smaller.

The worst, though, are the wires and tubes and machines hooked up to her, necessary for her survival. The wires stuck to her chest, she recognizes from her own stay in the ICU, she knows they track her heart rate. A white, velcro-looking strap surrounds one of her feet, tracking her oxygen levels. A ventilator allows her to breathe in the first place, pumping air into her through her tiny little button nose.

She hates that most, the machines connected to her baby girl, keeping her alive, allowing her little miracle to survive.

"Marvella," she breathes. Her voice is soft, quiet to keep the serenity of the small room intact. As much as the machines click softly, no one has spoken since she entered the room. She imagines that Castle has been awaiting her reaction with baited breath, and the nurse is probably used to seeing new mothers meeting their child for the first time and knows not to start rattling off medical mumbo jumbo, not right away.

"Marvella," he repeats from behind her, his hands slipping from the wheelchair's handles to rest on her shoulders, fingers lightly digging into her flesh as he takes in the sight before them, too. She can literally feel his eyes drifting between her and their daughter, Marvella.

She'll explain later, why she chose that as their daughters name. Later, she'll tell him that she'd pull out her phone and look up baby names that would suit their daughter and the situation she's in, the one she'll be in when she eventually overcomes all this. Later, she'll tell him that Marvella means 'a miracle to marvel at', which is exactly what their baby girl with be when she gets through this. Later, she'll tell him it also means 'extraordinary', and he'll say that it's perfect for their little princess, because Marvella is extraordinary. He'll say that Marvella's extraordinary, just like her mother.

For now, though, they simply gaze at their baby girl through the opening of her incubator. They trace the contours of her tiny, curled up body and burn the image of her to memory. She makes sure she'll always remember this moment, the first time she sees her baby girl, her daughter. She silently vows to make sure that Marvella always knows she's loved, and safe and that no matter what happens, she'll always know that her parents are here for her.

She has no words, nothing to say to the little girl who stole her heart, even through the plastic that separates them. She can't begin to describe the desperation to take this all away, to rewind the past week and go back to the moment when Marvella was still safely growing in her womb. She can't, and doesn't want to, begin to imagine what the next few months will entail.

She doesn't listen as the nurse softly explains Marvella's condition, medical facts and statistics, explanations of her current situation and what's to come. Her voice sounds distant as she speaks, as her thoughts over take her, her entire being focused on the baby rather than the nurse. She hears her claim that Marvella will be under isolation for a while, only small touches from her parents and hospital staff with be allowed. She hears her talk about her underdeveloped immune system, lungs and digestive system. She talks softly about the risks, possible, rather common complications for micro-preemies. She knows the words are all directed at her, that the staff has already filled Castle in during his visits to the NICU.

She still can't bring herself to pay attention to most of what she says, comprehending the vague outline of what looks promising and what...doesn't.

She simply stares at her little girl, lets her heart will with love, her mind fill with fear.

Her hand comes up at rest against the plastic, palm open and pressed against the incubator. Tears well in her eyes as she gazes down at Marvella, love pumping through her, fear overwhelming her. Her baby is alone, forced to face so many challenges already, so many more to come and she's barely even a week old. And right now, there's nothing she can really do to help but sit here and hope, pray and believe in the possibility of magic, of miracle's, so she can find one.

She doesn't tear her eyes of her daughter, watches the steady but slight rise and fall of Marvella's chest as her surely tiny lungs accept the air from the ventilator. Right now, as her baby is being isolated in order to keep her as healthy as possible, it's the only reassurance she has that she's alive.

She'll deal with not being able to hold her baby, or even really touch her, if it means that her chest will continue to rise and fall as she breathes, grows and eventually thrives.

When his hand joins hers against the plastic that separates them from their daughter, his fingers curving to entwine with hers, she doesn't look up. She knows, though, as his other hand squeezes her shoulder, that he's making the same promises he is.

Marvella might be isolated, for now, but she will _never _be alone.

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**I am debating eventually turning this into a multi-chapter story or a series of one-shots focusing on Marvella's milestones and drawbacks, so let me know what you think.**


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